


A Subtle Kind

by Ruriruri



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriruri/pseuds/Ruriruri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When others demand that we become the people they want us to be, they force us to destroy the person we really are. Alternate reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Subtle Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate reality in which Misa and Matt's pasts and positions involving the Kira case are reversed, done as a late birthday present for paitac. Mello/Misa, Light/Matt, as well as some vaguely implied Matt/Misa. Some sexual content and spoilers.
> 
> This is a very old fic, from November 2006, and as the eight year mark approaches I'm afraid I have to admit this remains the most popular story I ever wrote. I'd mulled over whether or not to archive it on A03 for a long time-- whether I thought it held up well enough to stand with much newer, more polished works, or if it had any merit at all beyond as a novelty. Finally, I decided that it did. There are things that I'd do differently now, sometimes much differently, but beyond this note, there have been no alterations or changes to the text.
> 
> I am still pretty proud of "A Subtle Kind" for being the first English-language Mello/Misa fic. It makes me happy to know that it's still being enjoyed, and if you're encountering it for the first time, I hope you like it, too.

When others demand that we become the people they want us to be, they force us to destroy the person we really are. It's a subtle kind of murder. The most loving parents and relatives commit this murder with smiles on their faces. –Jim Morrison (attr.)

Misa knows Mello from school, all dark eyes and sunburned skin. She knows that he’s second in their class; she knows he came from Germany.

She prefers his past, his memories to hers, pushing whatever vague tidbits she can find out about him into drawers and onto pieces of notebook paper, letting memories of herself bleach out in the sun.

(auntie mumbling how Misa’s a burden, Misa’s a bitch to take care of, goddamn your parents making me raise you)

She prefers everything about him to anything about her. Misa’s fourteen and far-too-pale, far-too-unhealthy

(far-too- _stupid_ )

for his company or even his classes.

Misa’s always so sick. Something makes her tired all the time, tired and sore and worn-out, so she knows the hospital wing better than the nurses, has woken up more times there than in her own dorm room.

But Mello’s vibrant. Mello drinks life; Mello is life, on the football field, in the classroom, and Misa wishes

(even half of that was hers)

she could tell him so.

\--

So Misa cries the day he leaves, cries alone; Misa takes her piles of information and throws them on her bed.

(feeling so sore, body _aching_ )

(Virgin Mary looking on in righteous indignation)

She means to tear them up. She grabs the top sheet, is about to start ripping, when the words catch her eye unwillingly: familiar, flawed cursive.

(not like his)

“Mello has a rosary he wears under his shirts. Mello’s favorite color is black and his second favorite color is red. Mello plays football, just because Near doesn’t. Mello—”

Misa’s watery eyes widen.

“Mello wants to go to Los Angeles.”

She hiccups, tries to force herself out of the thought that it might be true; it might be where he’s going.

(gone)

Misa sobs again, so loud Linda all but bangs down the locked door, begging to be let in, asking what’s wrong.

\--

It’s five years before she sees him again.

Misa’s not sure why he picks her, how he recognizes her

(hair dyed blonde)

in the crowds of people at the mall she works at, making ice cream for laughing high school kids and whining children.

Sometimes it seems to her as though even they know she’s all wrong for the job, the way they look at her while she takes their orders. It seems like they see it somewhere in her eyes, how Misa’s misplaced here.

(how she’s spent hours in her apartment forcing herself to say I and me, how her inevitable slip-ups betray her as one of them, a Wammy’s House failure let loose on the world)

(minimum wage job, minimum wage life)

(at least Mello must have done better)

At least Misa hasn’t been sick in years.

There’s a teenager standing in line to order. Misa spares him a small glance like she always does for that (particular shade of blond) kind of person, all chains and skulls and sacrilegious crosses, but that’s all.

(it can’t be him)

Never mind how he’s leaning against the counter just like Mello used to. Never mind he’s all in black, except for his coat

(it’s a trend, a damn trend, that’s not—)

and his hair is that not-quite-gold and there’s a rosary hanging from his neck.

(God, _I_ —I recognize him)

Misa realizes she was right.

(only his face—oh, Mello, your _face_ , what did you do—)

(what did Kira do)

“What—what would—” (not willing to believe) “What would y-you like?”

“I’d like you to take your lunch break early.” He presses his fingers against the counter, leaning forward, voice a rasp. “Better yet, I’d like you to quit your job, right now. Can you do that, Misa?”

(Misa)

(can’t say his name not like this in public people would wonder people would know)

She whispers it anyway. He gives a quick nod.

(Mello, your face, why’d they—how could they)

There’s another crowd of people passing by, forming a line for the ice cream. Misa grabs the edge of the counter.

“Let—I—I can make up some excuse. For my manager. J-just wait, just ten minutes—it’ll be so fast, Mello, promise, Mr. Beatty’s been wanting to have me fired for a long time—”

(please be there once Misa gets back)

\--

He is there.

As soon as they’re in the car, Mello tells her about the case

(but all she wants to know is about the scar)

(like that fairy tale in one of the books—who hath dared to wound thee)

(Kira dared)

(Kira can go to hell)

and about what he needs her to do. She tries to listen even though it’s hard not to stare (Mello, beautiful Mello, back five years later).

(back, somehow, for her)

\--

The hotels are grimy and scandalous, at least in her imagination, but Mello takes it in stride when he hands over credit cards and signs fake names at the register.

“That receptionist was so mean! Glaring at us like that… little old bitch, all ‘oh, Kira will punish you!’ so loud, right like that—just ‘cause you put different last names on the register… oh, if she only knew what we were really doing…”

“Don’t give her any ideas.”

Mello gets a room with one bed although he never moves from the sofa at night. They leave half an hour later to start bringing in the supplies: chocolate, twelve-packs of soda, black market spying equipment, then Misa collapses on the bed.

It’s to try to keep up the old illness, and Mello glances at her. For a second the breath catches in her throat and she hopes he’ll ask if she’s okay.

(but you’re not really tired)

(haven’t been tired like that since—)

(he left)

She decides to only unpack if he does. She tries not to go to sleep until he has, just so she can stare at him a little (poor Mello, he’s the tired one), there on the couch.

Even then, he looks like a Norman Rockwell painting on an acid trip, his face like a ripped canvas. Even then, Misa wants to touch his hands (no gloves, his _hands_ ) to make sure he’s real.

Even then, she doesn’t.

\--

“It’s too bad he’s practically engaged to Kira,” Misa says two weeks later over the phone, nearly choking on stale potato chips and lukewarm Coke. “Matt’s really hot.”

“Sure,” but it’s more an attempt to get her to be quiet than actual agreement.

Over the past week, they’ve changed hotels four times. Today’s is the nicest by far, three rooms, ridiculously spacious. She has a dozen brand-new laptops scattered around her, just out of the boxes. Misa’s had more than enough time to turn them all on, but after all she can only keep her attention on a few at once.

(and calling Mello’s a much better distraction than a bunch of stupid computers)

She’s never collected information on anyone (but _Mello_ ) before, and so she does her best, cataloguing the valuable with the inane, spilling it all in paragraphs to Mello.

“Misa’s looked him up.” The third-person’s dropping back into her speech patterns; at this point it seems unnatural to say otherwise. “Just like you said. He’s been one of Japan’s top male models for the past five years. In the magazine polls the teenage girls always put him either at number one or number two for the ‘best-looking’ category. Although Misa thinks he looks really lazy walking around on the runway. He has very bad posture and he smokes. He’s not going to look that good much longer. He’s a foreigner who got his start modeling for a company called—”

“Misa?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

She shuts up.

“What’s more interesting,” Mello says, “is that at this point he doesn’t seem to be using the notebook.”

Misa gulps down another handful of potato chips. She’s going to hate herself if she gets fat doing this; she hasn’t got Mello’s

(nerve, ability, intelligence)

metabolism.

_Chips are cheap, cheap as chocolate_ , Misa justifies, and she tells him to hold on a second while she gets up to find paper towels to wipe the grease from her hands.

“Misa doesn’t see how Matt ever had time to do that, anyway. His schedule’s too full.”

“In 2004 his schedule included over a month of being locked up under the charge of being the second Kira,” Mello says dryly, voice crackling over the phone. “He tried to commit suicide rather than talk.”

“Oh.” Misa turns on another computer (paper towels crumpled on the floor). “Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t, or Misa would be even more bored doing this.”

\--

Secretly, Misa thinks it’s more than a good thing that Matt didn’t die.

She reads the internet rumors that Mello’s long since pored over, forums and threads five years old. Police capture. Police release. A sum of money equal to three years’ worth of Matt’s normal salary to keep him quiet about the entire affair.

One of the forum-goers believes quite fervently that Matt’s actually dead, murdered by the police for voicing his support of Kira. Misa finds this funny, especially once she scrolls down and reads the replies to the post.

(“I just saw him on a commercial! It’s hard to advertise Levis when you’re dead, don’t you think?”)

(“That could’ve been stock footage!”)

She plays Matt’s commercial over and over and it seems almost like sacrilege.

(should be spying, should be being good for Mello, but—)

(Matt smiles and Mello doesn’t, Matt’s halved his life at the very least and he—he can still smile)

(as though it were all a waste anyway)

Misa flushes bright red, although Mello’s not there to see it.

\--

Sometimes, Misa will get bored enough to start to talk about the orphanage.

“The only good marks Misa ever got were in Geometry,” she says. “Misa liked Geometry. And Criminology back when we were twelve or thirteen—that was fun.”

She won’t talk about the records she kept, those pieces of paper, that proof she memorized him much better than she ever knew a geometry postulate. That might worry him, somehow.

Misa sprays cleaning duster on the computer keys with the hand not holding her cell phone, and Mello doesn’t answer.

“But that was all, you know. Misa used to wonder why they kept her there. Misa wasn’t any good—everyone else was way too smart for her.” She giggles, high and false. “Misa thought Mr. Wammy just felt sorry for her.”

“I doubt it.”

Misa giggles again.

“You’re too nice! Mello, you’re always—you always were too nice to Misa.” She hugs the phone to her chest, savoring the moment before continuing. “Roger used to give me lectures about paying attention and potential and everything—he’d send me to his office and say,” Misa scrunches her face into an impersonation, though of course Mello can’t see it over the phone. “He’d say, ‘Misa, you’ve given up. I don’t know why, but you have. It’s disappointing.’ Used to get so mad after that.”

Mello snorts.

“Roger was a bastard.”

Misa could hit herself for mentioning Roger.

“Remember how Misa was sick all the time? He never said it to my face, but Misa heard him tell Mr. Wammy that it was probably psychosomatic.”

(like Misa was doing it to herself)

“And it wasn’t, Mello! How could it be? You don’t make yourself—be tired like that, all the time.”

(auntie told her so, auntie knew the weakness would stay and fuel two dozen medical bills)

(and damned if she hadn’t been right)

Mello’s voice suddenly cuts in.

“You used to watch us play football sometimes when you weren’t sick.”

It wasn’t sometimes. It was all the time, every time she could lug herself out of the hospital wing and see him out there. She thinks he realizes that.

“Well—you—Mello, you were really good.”

Mello doesn’t say anything for a second, then, finally—

“I was the only one out there who always played to win.”

She picks up her hairbrush with the hand not holding the phone, inspects the hairs. Her murky black roots are starting to return; Misa supposes he has to know why she has her hair dyed the exact yellowy shade that his is naturally.

(Mello kicking the football, running around, hair looking almost gold)

( _trick of the sun_ , Misa’s friends used to say, _trick of the sun and he’s—don’t bother with him—you should study now that you’re better, you’re failing English but you’re out here like an idiot_ )

(but Misa would have failed anyway)

“Misa wouldn’t say that.”

\--

Misa buys a journal at the Los Angeles airport, red, with a black cross on the cover. She hugs it to her chest, hoping he’ll give her one more call before she has to board, some last-minute instruction, so she can drown in his words.

(beautiful voice)

Misa likes to fool herself. His voice is actually hoarse and raspy, especially these days, like he’s coming down with something.

(maybe he’s better now)

She hopes so.

(Mello was always so healthy, not like Misa)

Misa opens the journal after boarding the plane (he didn’t call), writes Mello-Mello-Mello all over every page (for good luck so he’ll be better). Block letters. Longhand. Print.

(going to Japan)

An attempt at hiragana.

(Mello and Misa…)

She’d chide herself if she didn’t still hope it would happen.

“What’s that?” the stewardess asks, and Misa slams the journal shut.

“Private,” she mumbles, face turning hot (like a fool she’s put her real name on one of the pages, arranged against another desperate row of Mellos—she doesn’t know his real name)

(but, God, if he’d trust her enough to tell her—)

The stewardess shrugs and sets down the meal tray.

\--

She decides to admit it once she gets off the plane, once she’s torn up the journal in the wastebasket, once he’s called to tell her directions to the place they’re staying at now and she’s finally found him again.

“Misa loves you,” Misa says with a wide grin to give him an outlet, a way to shrug it all off.

He looks tired, leaning on the twin bed like that, rosary dangling from his fingers. He looks damned, an inverted angel (and God, there’s words for people like him— _sorry_ and _low_ but when has that mattered?), and probably he won’t even respond.

Misa’s eyes are tearing up anyway, even though she’s prepared herself for this best she could, and she throws herself on the other bed to stare at the ceiling.

(eleven at night but you’re still in black leather and cowboy boots because you always wanted to be like him you always wanted to be him _be with him_ )

(be him)

(even though back at school they said you should be L, you _must_ be L, you never wanted to be L, no, you wanted to be _Mello_ )

(and if you couldn’t do that, at least be Mello’s, his friend, his tool, anything and everything he ever could’ve wanted you to be—)

Her foot hits her luggage and half of it splays out on the floor: short skirts, tops, a hairdryer, a converter. No lingerie beyond the black cotton push-up bras and panties. She kicks it again and the rest falls out, paperwork claiming dual citizenship in England and America, passport good for ten years: birth certificate, ID cards, credit cards, all the lies for him.

All the lies for him, and somehow she can’t even force herself to mind.

“Misa—”

“D-don’t you _know_? You… you never had to worry. Never, because—because if it came down to it, Misa would die for it. For you. If Misa had to, she would die. If it meant you got ahead—in the case—if it meant you—could b-beat Near a-and kill Kira—it’d be okay with Misa.”

For a second he looks absolutely horrified.

(there, you’ve done it now, oh, Mello thinks you’re crazy, Misa, look, he thinks you’re absolutely insane—)

Like he can see those piles of paper, stacks of information in her eyes

_(Mello has a rosary he wears under his shirts; Mello’s favorite color is black and his second favorite color is red; Mello plays football—)_

like a hopeless damnation, sickening him.

Revolting him.

“It’d be okay, Misa swears,” she’s babbling and she knows it, can’t keep herself from it; she’s sobbing out the words, “Misa s-swears it’d be okay, okay, okay—”

He’s dropped the rosary. The expression on his face is crumbling.

(God, look what you did to him)

(he’s tired, Misa, more tired than you ever were, he’s so tired of trying and failing and trying again)

Misa’s like a broken record now, stuck on the same track, the same words.

(the same face—like the years have melted and he’s fourteen-nearly-fifteen one more time, and he’s playing football on the field, and she’s failing English just so she can watch him)

“Okay, M-Mello, l-listen, it’d be—”

_(okay)_

Chocolate on his breath, his whole mouth tastes of chocolate, and Misa knows because he’s gotten up from the bed, he’s kissing her, his hands suddenly jerking up the hem of her shirt.

(he’s so tired)

The sobbing turns into shudders and hiccups. Vague, scrambled words dance through her brain, _Mello_ and _dying_ and total disbelief that any of this is real.

(and if she squints—God, he could be the same, pushing her onto the bed, unclasping her bra, unzipping her jeans—he could, he could)

Suddenly she’s kissing him back desperately, touching the scar on his neck with both hands while he—

(be brilliant once just for Misa)

Just once, he is.

\--

And oh, it goes on after that. Misa buys enough chocolate to cover the hotel floor.

(and hopes it’ll happen again some night, that he’ll want her enough—be tired enough)

But every night afterwards Mello falls asleep alone on the other bed, and Misa doesn’t have the nerve to ask him why.

Wammy’s House doctrine comes back into her mind, thinking _tool, tool, he used you, Misa_. The sex was nothing but a thought-out payment, nothing but insurance that he’d have her till

(the end)

he caught Kira.

(and haven’t you wondered why he picked you at all? you said so yourself, Misa, you’re not smart like him—)

(it’s because he just knew, Misa, he knew what you’d do for him so he used you for all you were worth)

Misa forces the thoughts from her mind while she brushes her hair (dyed it back for you, Mello, no more roots now; it’s blonde-blonde-blonde).

Mello hasn’t used her. She hasn’t done anything that dangerous. Just spying on Matt, four cameras locked on his face. Really, Misa likes Matt okay.

(he’s not Mello and he’s in love with Kira but he’s nice)

(if anyone’s being used, it’s poor old Matt)

The apartment’s dim lights make him seem less like Japan’s five-year obsession and more like an ordinary person. When there’s no one to stop him, Matt mismatches all his clothes unintentionally.

He tends to look bored, even when he’s absently trying to flirt with Mogi, who looks more and more uncomfortable by the minute. Mogi keeps halfheartedly offering to cook something, but Matt insists he’s fine.

Matt mentions that he’s a bit glad work’s kept Light busy lately. It gives him time to play video games.

“Among other things,” he adds, grinning. “If you’re interested at all, Mogi.”

Mogi shakes his head so violently that to Misa it almost looks painful.

“Are you sure? Don’t worry. It’s nothing too perverse. I’ll be in Kohaku,” Matt says, then laughs hard, turning up the sound on his PSP. “I can’t sing, but I called my agent and told him I knew Takada and I wanted on the damn program. So thirty minutes later I ended up with a Kohaku representative at my door, begging me to perform. God, we’re going to lose.”

Misa giggles despite herself, imagining poor Matt with a microphone in his hands instead of his habitual games or cigarettes.

(doesn’t matter, his fans will still love him even if he can’t sing)

“What did you want on for, then?”

“Childhood dream,” Matt says, deadpan. “Nah, Mogi. I didn’t even have a passport to Japan until I was sixteen. You know me. I’m basically the foreign exchange student who never left.” Matt laughs a little. “When I first came here I thought Kohaku was a brand of rice cake. Had no idea it was a singing competition until the exchange family I was spending the semester with started laughing at me when I said I really wanted to eat it before I had to go back home.”

Mogi laughs in return, although it’s a bit nervous.

“What’s the real reason you’re going to be in Kohaku?”

“I wanted to say something while I was up there. You’ll see.” Matt grins. “Something like half of Japan watches Kohaku, ordinarily. What with Takada acting as host I think damn near everyone’s going to want to witness it, right?”

Misa perks up and adjusts her headphones. Maybe Matt plans on confessing his role as the second Kira.

(that’s far too much to hope for)

“Probably,” Mogi admits.

“Takada thinks being Kira’s spokesperson _entitles_ her.”

Oddly, Mogi doesn’t press (but Misa wants him to, Misa’s _interested_ , damn it, because whatever Matt has to say might mean something important to the case), just sits there while Matt keeps playing the video game.

“You know that Light went to university with her, don’t you?” Matt starts suddenly, carelessly. “That’s where I first met her.”

“So you weren’t lying when you said you knew—”

“I’m not stupid enough to lie about knowing _her_. Light and Kiyomi—they had a fling once, back then. That delusional bitch still thinks she means something to him because of that. Never mind he’s been living with me for the past five years.” Matt puts the game down and pulls out his lighter, clicks it, watching the flame. “Never mind he’s working on the case that’s going to get her executed once he solves it.”

“Matt—”

“She had the nerve to tell me to my face she was sleeping with him. To tell me she knew Light and I hadn’t even shared the same room in four months. Delusional little bitch.” He takes off one glove and starts to hover it over the lighter’s flame. “I told her the chances of Light cheating on me with someone like her were nonexistent.”

Mogi looks intensely embarrassed. Matt sighs.

“The only reason she knew about me and Light is because he dumped her for me. I’ve kept pretty damn quiet about the relationship. Not one announcement to the press this whole time. I used to kid him... say he’s ashamed of what people would think. I’d tell him it didn’t matter. But it wasn’t that he was ashamed, just… Light always had the best reason in the world. The case.”

“Matt—”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m an idiot compared to Light, but even I know that catching Kira—that’s insanely important—” Matt stops himself and lights a cigarette.

Mogi doesn’t say anything.

“I am an idiot, aren’t I? Light’s trying to make the world better. He’s a good person, all the moral fiber in the world, trying to stop Kira, best he can, and—God, I’m petty. The only thing I want to do is announce him as my boyfriend at Kohaku, so I can see the look on that bitch Takada’s face.” Matt pauses. “That’s pretty damn selfish.”

Mogi shrugs, finally starts in, “I can understand—”

“It’s not just Takada, though, not really.”

Mogi sits up slightly in his chair.

“What is it?”

“Have you ever felt like you were going to die, Mogi?”

“A few times.”

Matt dismissively waves the hand holding the cigarette, making little trails of smoke in the air.

“I doubt it’s the same way I’ve felt it. No offense or anything, Mogi.”

Mogi raises his eyebrows and shrugs. Matt keeps on blurting with that same even, almost rehearsed tone.

“When I was ten I had bacterial meningitis.” Matt licks his lips. “They weren’t expecting me to make it through the week. I was an only child. My parents were sending rabbis and priests—hell, I even got consecrated oil dumped on my head once while I was in the ICU.

“They said I had only about a fifty-fifty shot at surviving. And that would be with severe damage to my brain, hearing, all that good stuff. Well, I came out of that hospital three weeks later perfectly intact. Till the day they got killed my parents credited that damn oil. But I knew what it was.

“The brain’s funny. When I had meningitis, I was imagining myself out of it. I was ten years old, thinking ‘It can’t be that.’ Whenever I was even halfway conscious, that was the only thing on my mind. ‘It can’t be that.’ A mind trick. So long as I held on to that loophole I’d made up, I couldn’t die. Same when I had the stalker.

“Now I’ve got the same feeling. But this time, the loopholes are gone. Death’s _inevitable_ , Mogi.”

Matt stubs out his cigarette between his gloved fingers.

“So I had four visits with four separate doctors behind Light’s back. None of them could find a damn thing wrong with me. Apparently I’m doing pretty well for a gay model. Shocked even them. But it didn’t shock me.”

Mogi’s answers seem like delayed reactions, muffled bombs from World War II going off while KISS records “Beth.”

“You’re twenty-five years old. You’re not going to die anytime soon.”

“I knew you’d say that.” Matt grins. “Maybe I made it up. Maybe I’m just telling you that I think I’ll die so I can justify myself. Say I don’t want to die with the best thing that ever happened to me—Light—kept a secret forever.”

(oh, poor Matt, Misa wonders what he sees in him)

Matt suddenly puts one gloved hand on Mogi’s lap. Mogi stiffens, moves in his seat so Matt’s hand is touching the sofa pillow instead, but Matt just grins back. Misa suddenly realizes part of why Matt’s been an idol so long. His smile is oddly genuine.

“You don’t smoke, do you, Mogi?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. I usually got Matsuda to get me cigarettes back when L had me arrested… you should start to smoke. I tend to like people better when they have a vice. It kind of makes them human. Light’s the only exception.”

Matt gets up and leaves the room after that, but Misa, hurriedly dialing Mello’s cell, doesn’t notice.

\--

Three weeks later, Mello lies next to her on the bed, citing facts.

“Takada has more bodyguards than the President of the United States,” crumpling a chocolate bar wrapper in an oddly ungloved fist. Misa chews her lip, realizing his nail polish is missing, wondering if she ought to remove hers the next chance she gets. “Luckily for us, not all of her bodyguards happen to carry guns.”

“How many, Mello?”

“About one in three. The main entourage is filled with them, of course.”

“Misa always thought carrying guns in Japan was ille—”

“Christ, Misa, it hasn’t mattered what’s legal in Japan for the last five years. You know that.” Mello swallows the last of the chocolate. “Anyway, if you get caught after I kidnap Takada, they won’t fire on you.”

“Why not?”

Mello’s expression freezes in stubborn lines.

“They won’t fire on you.”

(don’t say it again, Misa, shut up, you know better, please, God, Misa be a good girl for Mello and don’t ask again)

“Why not?”

(because Mello doesn’t think the world’s as wicked as they say)

For a traitorous second it almost seems he’s only trying to convince himself. He threads his fingers through her hair and a shiver runs down Misa’s back

(but he has to be right)

before forcing the idea

(that Misa could fail that Misa could die that _Mello_ could fail)

out of her mind.

“They won’t, Misa,” and she believes him.

\--

Misa knows Mello from school

(eyes still shine, still desperate)

and Misa knows him so well now, knows she’ll be okay even though there’s a gun in her hands and Takada’s right there in front of her in lurid colors

(God, Matt was right, she does look like a bitch)

and she’s firing and the smoke’s everywhere.

The scenery is a blur, crowds and cars, and her eyes are watering up. Her foot’s heavy on the accelerator, zigzagging, swerving around.

(oh, Misa’s such a bad driver, why does she have to be such a bad driver?)

It’s a silly thought, and it makes her giggle crazily for seconds that seem to stretch into hours. So silly, but she has to bite her own lip to make herself stop, bite it hard, hard—

(poor Mello, Mello, Misa’s sorry she’s such a bad driver)

But it’s no use.

She gets out of the car five minutes later, blood on her lip, dripping down her chin. The bodyguards’ guns are trained on her but she knows it’s only to scare her. Try to force her to come quietly.

Because the last thing Mello told her was that she’d be okay, and Misa has never had reason to disbelieve him. Not now, not ever.

Mello’s going to be waiting on her in that church in Nagano. Mello’s going to be celebrating his victory, all chocolate and champagne and Misa, oh, Misa _will_ make it over there.

If she has to shoot the bodyguards down right where they stand. If she has to make an insane rush to the safety of the car, slamming the gas pedal, running them over. If she has to—

recite—

remember—

(pain hurt oh God oh God oh _Mel_ —)

(papers on her bed, ugly handwriting made lovely by the words, by the name on the pages)

(and suddenly he’s there, fourteen-nearly-fifteen, sitting on her bed, beautiful voice reading out loud, just for her)

_(Mello has a rosary he wears under his shirts. Mello’s favorite color is black and his second favorite color is red. Mello plays football, just because Near doesn’t. Mello’s—)_

(Misa’s—)

finis


End file.
